Life in Slow Motion
by high improbability
Summary: When England finds France's corpse, the nations realize that a deadly disease is afoot. And the remaining ones know they must try to stop it before nobody is left.
1. prelude

"_saying prayers to light a fire, we're gonna start a war"_

**Life in Slow Motion**

* * *

**Fandom**: Axis Powers Hetalia

**Length**: Multi-chapter

**Characters**:Most

**Rating**: T for safety

**Summary**: This disease was killing them all. And they had to stop it before it was too late.

I OWN NOTHING

* * *

**Chapter One**: the terror in his eyes

* * *

Pale skin.

Wide, unblinking azure eyes.

Still body.

And England sees this in front of him – behind him the silent conflagration that is Paris, and in front of him France's dead body.

France's.

Dead.

Body.

There is no blood – and England is _glad,_ almost, that France had died without gore, although it didn't change the fact that he was dead to begin with. France's eyes are open, almost gleaming in terror, although they are dead, lifeless, and it's only the reds and yellows of the fire being reflected in his once lively blue eyes. And his mouth is hanging open, as if he'd been screaming when he'd died. England closes his eyes and closes France's eyelids over his eyes for the last time. And his voice – seemingly lost in the caverns of his throat, forces its way to the surface. "This is impossible," he finally croaks, his knees giving way and his world spinning out of control yet again.

"Francis –" he speaks, using France's human name for the first time since the outbreak of the Hundred Years' War (the name sounds foreign and yet at home on his lips) " —you were supposed to live till a ripe old age, remember? We were supposed to be beating the shit out of each other with walking sticks a thousand years from now. Why are you dead _now?_" His voice falters. "You go on to your happy place with Scott and Erin and Lloyd, and leave me here? You _fool_. You even lie to me about when you're going to die." And that's when he breaks down.

"Arthur?" In the back of his head, England recognizes Canada's faint yet worried voice, and the familiar footsteps rushing up from behind him, and he thinks, _no, Mattie can't know. This will be too much for him_, but he can't get up and stays rooted where he is. "Arthur, what's going on? I heard the news about Papa from Alfred – he's fine, by the way, and I brought help, but–"

The footsteps stop, and Canada's voice – breaking, faltering. "No. Oh, _dieu_, no."

That's when England gets up, and hugs Canada as he cries.

* * *

"I see."

Sweden's face is solemn as he receives the news from a broken China – _broken China, how ironic. His face is sad and cracked like a once beautiful piece of porcelain. _

"Hong Kong is gone." China stresses the last word, his eyes dead. Again, the irony. This man is probably thrice as old as he, Berwald, and for the first time since they've met the look of the man's eyes betrays his true age. They were once so lively, so bright, so beautiful. Now –

—dead.

"Gone, aru," China repeats, and his voice cracks. "Hong, my poor Hong. He'd only just been returned."

Sweden nods silently, and hands him yet another cup of tea.

"And Yong Soo, Mei, Sunan," he laments, downing the tea in one gulp. "They were always so full of light, all three of them. Now, it's as if someone as blown the fire out of them, aru." China sighs again. "And Lien! My beautiful sister, on the brink of death! We're all so busy taking care of her all the time that I'm worried…" China sobs and mourns, and Sweden wordlessly hands him another cup. "Mei and Sunan have their hands full just making sure she stays alive."

"How's J'pan?"

"I don't know, aru," China spits suddenly, and Sweden is surprised at the sudden mood change. Hadn't he been mourning the loss of his beloved youngest brother just a few moments ago? "He's off somewhere. He's alive, aru. Just not coming."

"Isn't Japan-san helping to look for survivors among the Central Europeans?" Finland cuts in kindly, speaking for the first time since China had appeared on the doorstep, near tears and needing someone to talk to. In his hand is a letter from Austria. "I just got news from Austria-san, whose house Japan is at right now. He's doing a little better, but Hungary isn't doing too well." He shakes his head sadly at the thought of his old friend.

"I just want this stupid plague to be over, aru," China moans.

Sweden opens his mouth and is about to say something when the door flies open and Iceland dashes in, his cheeks flushed and a horribly worried look on his face.

By now, they know that look.

"Svi," he calls, panting. "Fin! Norway's down." He acknowledges China with a hurried nod.

"Another one, aru?" he asks, uncertainly.

Iceland nods.

Finland gasps, horrified, Sweden bolts to his feet, and China's heart does a somersault. How much longer would it take until all of them were down with this strange disease that put nations on the brink of death and set their capitals on fire?

How much longer till all of them were…gone?

* * *

"_Natalia_, please. This is a world conference; we have to talk about what should be _done._"

Ukraine sighs and turns to the blond man beside her. "Eduard, please, reason with her."

England looks on with tired, _tired_ green eyes at the scene in front of him. Estonia and America – oh, thank the _Lord_ the boy is still fine, who knows what England might do if he wasn't – are pleading with Ukraine's imperturbable younger sister.

"Bela, your sister might have a point," Estonia puts forward. "We cannot risk _anyone_ making contact with the sick ones anymore. The disease is potentially contagious."

England sees Belarus expertly flick her wrist, and Estonia knowingly ducks out of the way. Half a second later, a knife hits the wall behind him. Normally, he would have been amused by this, but now it is impossible. His brothers…

"How come the Asians-"

"My apologies, Miss Belarus," Estonia replies, "But I'm afraid your brother is much sicker than Miss Vietnam." Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Vietnam's family wince.

"Eduard, I do not care. Take me to my brother at _once_." Belarus adjusts her ribbon and glares at him. "I _must_ see him. I cannot sit here and talk about everyone else when he is _dying_."

"Natalia, I am quite sure Ivan can manage–"

"_Belarus_—"

"Sister, I think…"

"I say let her." Seychelles stands up, a hauntingly somber look on her once sunny face. Her hair, loose from those trademark red ribbons, nearly covers her sad brow. The black mourning dress she wears reaches her knees, and it's the hem of this dress she fingers as she stares at all of them. "She _cares_ about him, guys. Let her have the chance to see him before…" her voice cracks; and her warm eyes meet England's for a second. "Before it's too late."

Grief stabs England through the chest again, and he realizes how much he misses the sunny cerulean of Seychelles' dress – the exact same shade as France's sapphire eyes once were. Monaco gasps and bursts into tears. Next to her, Canada tries to comfort her through his own flood of tissues.

"I never even got to say goodbye," Monaco chokes through her accent. "Oh, _Papa_."

Estonia looks between her, Ukraine, America, and Belarus, and finally relents.

"I-I'll take _syestra_," Ukraine chokes out. "Perhaps…it will do us both some good." She takes her sister's hand and leads it towards the door. One hundred and fifty eyes watch their departing forms.

"How _is_ Lien, by the way?" Spain looks over his shoulder at the East Asians, his face unreadable, like it always has been since France's death. "Has she heard?" China gives him a horrible, _horrible_ look, and goes back to staring at his tea.

"She's the same," Lien's sister responds, rubbing the dark circles under her eyes. A glint flashes under their honey brown shade, but Taiwan gives him a smile anyway. "We – we told her."

"Oh?" For the first time in a week, Spain's face puts on a half-assed attempt at a smile. "How did she take it?"

"Not how people expected her to," Thailand pipes up, carefully avoiding the painfully empty seat across the table, the usual gentle smile gone from his tired face. "She just…_stared_ at us, and just closed her eyes."

"No _fuck yes_ or anything," Korea adds mirthlessly, his usually handsome face marred by fatigue. "Just…sleep."

It is a lie, of course. But then again, it's not like telling the truth would make any difference.

* * *

_When they told her, Vietnam's frail body became very, very still – so_ still_, in fact, that her family was afraid she'd stopped breathing. She went to the garden. She stayed until nightfall, staring up at the cloudy sky. Then she got back in bed and did not speak to anyone for three days._

_When her little sister gets her to talk, finally, she gives her family one sentence, in a cracked, broken voice hoarse from disuse. _

"_He was the only one…who flew me to the moon."_

* * *

But they do not tell the world this. Not while Tibet is at her house, giving her all sorts of Buddhist medicines that they know, deep down, will not work. Not while the world is on the verge of tearing itself apart. Not while Canada and Seychelles and Monaco are grieving. Not _now_.

"Francis wouldn't have liked that," Denmark says mirthlessly, a savage look in his usually playful eyes. He glances at the empty chair next to him, winces at the absence of pain the person who was supposed to be sitting there would have given him for that remark, and heaves a sigh at the rest of the Nordic nations. Finland gives his hand a reassuring squeeze, and Sweden gives a light cough, but Iceland does not move.

"No," he murmurs absentmindedly, staring out the window. "He wouldn't have."

England clenches the table until his knuckles turn white. "Look, Ludwig," he calls over, "We're not getting _anything_ done here."

"He's right." America, who has been uncharacteristically quiet ever since Belarus and her sister left the room, speaks up. "We're not going to accomplish anything moping about France's–" at this he grimaced visibly – "Death. What we need to do is tally everyone that's…infected, figure out what the hell we're going to do about it, and end this whole mess." He slams a fist down onto the table, looking each of the nations in the eye. "This disease is a problem, but it's a problem we're going to solve, dammit!"

Most of the nations are too stunned to speak – it was rare that America took anything seriously. Switzerland is the first to react. "Good you're doing something right for once, Alfred," he tells the younger nation. It would have been almost approving had his face not been so serious.

Liechtenstein nods next to him and takes out a piece of paper. Almost immediately after she divides the paper into "Infected" and "Deceased," voices pour in.

"Russia, I'm afraid, is quite ill," Germany tells her softly. "So are Latvia and Lithuania. As I'm sure you've heard."

"And Vietnam as well," China moans. Liechtenstein gives each of them a serious nod and takes the names down.

"Norway," Iceland whispers.

"Hol, too," Belgium tells the younger girl. "Lucia's at home caring for him."

The paper is filled up with names of affected nations when Liechtenstein turns to Austria who, hasn't spoken a single word this entire meeting. Finally he looks up, and his stare is that of one who has been utterly broken.

"Hungary," he finally utters hoarsely, the indigo eyes overflowing with an emotion Liechtenstein can't quite place. "My dear Eliza. She's _dying_."

Prussia hangs his head, Spain buries his face in his hands, Poland starts sobbing for her and Lithuania, Switzerland looks down, and Liechtenstein closes her eyes and turns away.

Because underneath all the false encouragement they can give each other, deep down they know there's nothing they can do.

* * *

**A/N: FIRST SERIOUS MULTICHAP HETALIA FIC YEAH**

**It was a little plot bunny that wouldn't leave me alone.**

**So anyway this is only the prologue. Things will get a lot…harsher later. **

**If I decide to continue it, that is (I'm a lazy bitch. Really.)**


	2. shadows

"Feliciano."

Italy turns around, slowly, to see Spain's worried face. "Antonio," he greets with his signature smile, his eyes lighting up just a bit, albeit feebly, "_Buona giornata_."

Spain does not beat around the bush. "Feliciano," he repeats. "How is your brother?"

He sees something flash under the younger nation's eyes, but Italy retains that cheerful smile. "He's getting better," Italy says. "The doctors say–" He does not finish his sentence when that dark look crosses Spain's face.

"Don't lie to me." Suddenly Spain is in his face, his teeth clenched, the light jade of his eyes replaced by sharply cut emeralds. The look on his face is something…unnerving, _terrifying_, even – the look he wore as a conquistador. The look everyone knew not to cross. The look that only came out when something was very, very wrong. "Tell the _truth_. Romano isn't getting better, is he? That's why you weren't at the meeting, right?"

Italy gasps and falls to his knees.

Spain wavers slightly, but almost immediately his eyes are clear again. "Answer me."

"Y-you're right," he chokes out. "_Fratello_'s only getting worse." He stands up and grabs the older nation's arms. "He's _dying_, Antonio! Every day I check on him, and every day I see that he's a little closer to..." He trails off and makes a strangled, whimpering sound.

Spain's eyes cloud over again, and once again his eyes are back to the familiar jade. "I knew it." For a moment it's almost as if he's going to laugh, but he smiles almost coldly. "Tell him…to try and get well anyway, Feliciano."

Italy bites his lip and nods hurriedly. "Will do, Antonio."

"Good." Spain smiles genially this time, and strides past the younger country. "Don't forget, dear Feli."

Italy stares after the Spaniard's retreating figure for a few seconds, then bolts down the road, screams at the hospital doorman to open the _fucking_ door, hurriedly tells the lady at the desk that he _needed to _see his brother, runs up the stairs, throws open the door to his brother's room, and as usual his heart does a somersault.

Romano's body is lying on the clean white bed, pale and incredibly still – so _still_ that Italy had to carefully watch his chest for its anticipated rise and fall. His eyes are closed, and his mouth isn't set in its usual frown – and the end product is so beautiful that it's almost as if his brother is a statue, dead and gone, as if this lovely, porcelain face was the face God meant for him to have –

_No_, he reminds himself. He mustn't think like that. They are going to find a cure, his brother is going to live, and eventually this whole plague would just be another event for the history books, and they would all live happily ever after.

Italy crosses himself and sends up a short prayer, and sits at his brother's bedside.

"Lovi," he says in his normal sweet tone, as if his brother was really up and kicking, "Antonio says hi and get well soon. Anyway, you – _we_ – missed a lot, apparently. They had another world meeting yesterday, and they're going to have one tomorrow again. I'm sorry, Lovi, but I'll have to leave you here while I'm in Washington tomorrow. It's okay with you, isn't it?" He pauses, as if waiting for a reply. "Good," he then says. "I bet you want me to tell you what happened, huh?" He reaches out and takes his brother's cold, pallid hand in his, and his face darkens. "You were up around the time of Francis's death, right, Lovi? Well, so many of us are down, like you." His face darkens even further and he starts stroking his brother's hand, as if Romano could actually hear him and as if the older boy needed comfort. "Ivan's down. So are Lars, Lien, Toris, Raivis, and so many others. Xiang and some of the South American nations have kicked the bucket, too. And Elizaveta's not getting any better." He sighed.

There is a knock on the door and a nurse comes in telling him that visiting hours are over.

"Well, Lovi, I have to go," he says. "Stay alive, if only for me."

* * *

"All right."

America stares down a table of the world's most renowned scientists, people they were forced to let in on the secret of the Nations, all focused and determined to stop this threat. He thinks it nice, but ultimately beneficial for the humans: they are mortal, immune to the disease. They had nothing to lose by working on it.

But for his kind, the Nations – one dose of whatever the hell caused this disease and they were down. Too much, their cities would be set on fire, their people scattered all over the world…

…they would die.

"What do we know of the disease so far?" England, next to him, asks. In the days following France's death, he'd gone from anguish to denial to silence to, finally, acceptance. And he seemed more determined than ever to stop this disease. And even he, though, didn't quite know what to make of this horrible, rushed meeting in Washington.

"We know it attacks nations only, and that it does not concern the Nation's economy," one faceless scientist replies. "It – it's viral. It destroys cities and puts the affected Nation into a comatose-like state. But before that they experience extreme fatigue and high fever."

"There is also a low risk of contagion," another one adds. "From studying the reported case, one can be infected by physical contact with a very sick individual–"

"_Who_ has been infected via contagion?" Germany interrupts sharply, and the remaining Nations' heads all swerve towards him.

"Miss Belarus," somebody pipes up feebly. "We just got the report a few hours ago." Immediately Estonia covers his face with his hands and Ukraine lets out a wail.

"I told her not to go," America muttered thickly. "I _told_ Natalia."

England places a well-meaning hand on his shoulder. "I'm sure Natalia will get better," he says. "I don't think she'll let herself die without a ring from our favorite Russian on her finger."

America almost chuckles, but remembers to restrain himself, and allows a smile instead. "I know. Nat still has to beat me up for _something_."

"Erm, about that, Mr. America," one of the scientists says. "We're not exactly _positive_ there's a cure…"

The room falls silent, and all of the nations look down. Because, really, how many of them didn't have countries they didn't care about in the hospital?

"How come," Poland asks, "Like, how come Ed and Katyusha aren't sick?"

"We don't know," the scientist replies. "We've had them undergo every single test possible and they've showed no sign of the disease…so far. The same has gone for Mr. Italy and Mr. Austria and all the other people who've been exposed to sick individuals as well."

"It's true," Italy asserts.

"Anyway, the cure?" Japan prods.

"There might be one," the head scientist, introduced to the nations as Mr. Brown, adds. "But we haven't found it yet. We're still – albeit quite unsuccessfully – trying to develop a vaccine."

"Also," another scientist adds, "Starting immediately after this meeting we are going to keep the infected nations quarantined. No visitors whatsoever."

China lets out a strangled cry, and his siblings look like they've had the life sucked out of them. The Nordics cast nervous glances at each other while Ukraine closes her eyes and starts to pray.

"B-but," England splutters, "You're _kidding_! Our _family_–"

"Will be kept under _quarantine_ to keep _you_ from getting sick and preventing the world from _exploding_," Mr. Brown snaps, sending the conference room into a state of surprised silence.

It's Germany who breaks it.

"So…what'll happen to the affected Nations?" he asks.

"They're in intensive care," Mr. Brown affirmed, seemingly having forgotten his outburst. "I assure you, we have the best doctors taking care of them. The doctors are under no risk, and I'm certain we will be able to keep them…hanging on."

"Thank goodness," Austria gushes. Since the last meeting he has been looking paler and more haggard. His family worries about him almost as much as they worry about Hungary. Prussia no longer gives him his regular jabs and comes to check on him and Hungary regularly, Liechtenstein offers financial and emotional support, and even Switzerland comes around sometimes. All to keep him from slipping off the edge – because somehow, they know that if the disease doesn't get him, insanity will.

They get near to nothing concluded at the world meeting as usual, another conference is scheduled for the following week, and everybody walks out of the conference building with a heavy heart.

* * *

"Hey, hey, _Katyusha_! Look, I _know_ you're sad about your siblings, but…"

"Oh, Mr. Alfred, I am having no idea about what to do!" Ukraine's accent is slipping again. "My poor Vanya…and Natasha, I know she and I should not have gone!"

The six of them – America, England, Canada, Ukraine, Estonia, and Poland – are gathered in a café a few blocks away from the conference building, and there is now a nice wet spot on America's bomber jacket, courtesy of Ukraine.

"H-hey," Poland pipes up, "Look, Katyusha, you're not the only one! Look at me! I've got Toris and Liz to worry about…"

Ukraine bursts into tears again.

"Feliks," Estonia rebukes.

England groans and reclines back into his seat. "Where did this goddamned disease come from, anyway?"

Estonia almost drops his cup of coffee. "You didn't know?"

England stares back at him with confused green eyes. "You bloody wanker, how could I?"

Canada hands Ukraine another tissue, assures her that her siblings will be fine, and tells England about how everybody Japan visited in the past two weeks have mysteriously gone down with the disease.

"Y-you're _kidding_!" England nearly spits out his tea. "Kiku? He – _why_? How? And wasn't he looking for survivors in Central Europe? What – it's true I haven't seen him in a while, but –"

"_Listen_, we're not yet _sure,_ okay?" Estonia says, adjusting his glasses."A few weeks ago, Kiku dropped by Francis's house to discuss trade. Reports say he stayed there for quite awhile, perhaps as long as three hours. Then a few days later he dropped by Elizaveta's house to talk about their…voyeurisms." He coughed lightly. "Then as far as I can remember, he dropped by Xiang's and Lien's houses to discuss even more trade. Then Elizaveta visited Lars and Bella, who visited Toris, who…"

"So you're saying it's because of _Kiku_ that half the world's bloody _dying_ and that there is no such thing as 'France' anymore," Arthur snaps, interrupting Estonia. "Dear old Japan, who never had a bad word to say about _anyone_."

"Artie, Artie, Artie!" America holds his hands up in mock surrender. "We're not _blaming_ Kiku for anything! It's just a suspicion, we can't even prove anything! It might even be all a coincidence!"

England's voice rises. "A _coincidence_? Alfred, Xiang is _dead_, my siblings are _dead_, Francis is fucking _dead_, and you are telling me that it's _Kiku_ who caused all this?"

"No!" Canada hisses so suddenly that England shuts up. "Didn't you hear Alfred, Arthur? It's just a _suspicion_."

"A suspicion that could possibly be true," England mutters, just low enough so they wouldn't hear him.

* * *

South Korea doesn't know what to make of his brother's funeral.

It's set in a gorgeous hall decorated intricately with traditional Chinese decorations, and it's quite small, restricted to his family, England, and some of his old colonies that were acquainted with Hong Kong, and some of his people who survived the conflagration, but then again that's the way he would have wanted it, right?

Right?

That's the thing – he and Hong Kong had drifted apart in recent years that Korea could nearly say he barely knew the younger boy anymore. Somehow, now, he missed the snarky, quiet boy who was in nearly every way a contrast to him – while he was vibrant and noisy, Hong Kong had been intelligent and introverted. He missed their quarrels, he missed their siblings breaking them apart, he missed making up with him. Somehow it had made, for him, in any case, their broken family a little more whole.

Now Hong Kong is gone, and Korea doesn't know what to do anymore. So he just stands to the side and watches everything unfold.

The funeral service is over before he knows it – England gives a speech about what a good colony Hong Kong was (Korea can tell it's half-baked, England doesn't need _more_ grief in his life), and traditional Cantonese songs Korea couldn't understand were sung, and soon people begin to file out.

He sees China off to a corner, moping again, being comforted by Thailand – when was the last time Yao-hyung had smiled at all? Thailand hasn't smiled since Vietnam got sick. Japan is at the other end of the room, refusing to look at anyone, and Taiwan is staring at Hong Kong's casket and even from afar Korea can tell his sister is about to cry. Despite political differences, she and Hong Kong were incredibly close, and Korea knew what it was like to lose a close sibling.

Where was North Korea now? Was he even still alive?

He hates this disease, what it had done to his family. They'd each tried, in their own way, to reconcile and be the happy family they once were, but this disease had destroyed everything.

He walks over to Taiwan, whose mouth is set in a firm, straight line. She turns and gives him a nod of recognition, and goes back to staring at their brother's body.

It's not that Hong Kong's face looks drastically different that his sister can't stop staring at it. It's that it – it's so _peaceful_ for being a face of a boy – no, _man_ – who died because of a terrible disease. Hong Kong is too happy, as if he was _accepting_ his death. So his mouth is turned upwards in the closest Korea has seen him smile in a long time, and he looks so nice and worry-free that he thinks it would be better for him to die now and look like that.

"Lucky bastard, just dying and leaving us here like that," Taiwan mutters.

"You okay?" Korea asks.

"What do you think?" she replies, her usually sunny face pensive and sad, and in that moment he is struck by the similarity of her and Hong Kong's faces – the same honey brown eyes, the same rosebud mouth, the same shade of chestnut hair. And he is saddened even more for her – she'd loved every one of their family terribly, almost to a fault, and the fact that Hong Kong was gone and that Vietnam might very well be next is killing her.

"Nam will pull through, right?" she whispers suddenly, as if she knows what he was thinking (and later he chides himself, she probably did).

"I'm sure she will; I mean she's got the best doctors and everything."

"You're lying," she tells him without taking her eyes off of Hong Kong. "We're all going to _die_."

South Korea gapes at her in shock – what had happened to the cheerful, optimistic girl he'd enjoyed picking on as a child, the plucky kid who was always his companion in troublemaking, the sister who'd always had such a zest for life?

What had happened to her?

What had happened to _them_?

* * *

**Author's Note: I can say this would have been uploaded so much earlier. But my internet started acting up, so yeah. Also, I really can say I don't like this chapter at all - it's too choppy and not smooth, the characters seem off, etcetera. I think I'll go back and rewrite it someday, but definitely not now. **

**Axis Powers Hetalia is _not_ mine.**

**Reviews make my day, dears. :)**


	3. remember, remember

**Life in Slow Motion**

**Chapter Three**: Remember, Remember

In her dreams, France walks, and so does she.

She remembers hair like gold and eyes like the sky, a beautiful fluid language spoken with a charming smile.

"_Mon cher_, why so sad?" he would croon, and that alone would be enough to send her grinning.

In her own little way, she had to admit, she loved him.

Sometimes she wondered what it would be like had she let him stay in her country. Would America still have interfered? Would she still wake up sometimes screaming, looking in the mirror and seeing the bloodshot eyes the psychotic smirk the gun in her hands—

The doppelganger?

No, no, she mustn't think about such tiring things. She must think of the roses the lessons in French the pretty dresses the wonderful shows of Paris, not the blood not the war not the separation not America's naiveté not Russia's iron grip.

The little things.

Like the way the lotuses opened during the dawn or the pretty green of her _ao dai_ or–

Her family.

Think of China's loving hands no not the bloodstained ones he'd had during the uprising

Think of Japan's soft voice no not the voice as hard as steel during the war

Think of Korea's hyperactive laugh no not the sullen resigned voice he'd had back then when Japan's warships came round

Think of Taiwan's sincerity and love no not the lack thereof she'd seemed to have when she'd left her – _their_ – brother

Think of Thailand's gentle smile no not the frown he'd have whenever one of them got in any sort of trouble

Think of Hong Kong's smart, silent, reassuring presence no not that…

…not that that presence isn't there anymore.

Think of the mountains and the rice paddies and the flowers oh you know how much you love lotuses and the songs no don't think about the fact that everyone's dying.

Even…

Vietnam shakes the thought of that. You are not going to die. You are not going to die. You are not going to die. You are not going to die. You are not going to –

She hears a voice somewhere – China's, she thinks, only his voice is light and cheerful, something she hasn't heard in a long time. The voice talks of love and family, relates all their happy times as not China Japan Korea Hong Kong Taiwan Thailand Vietnam but instead as Yao Kiku Yong Soo Xiang Mei Sunan Lien. The times of peace and fireworks and tales of dragons and staring up at the moonlit sky.

The voice changes – it's France's, she'd know that smooth accent anywhere – she forgets that France is long gone, dead as a rock, six feet under, with the ever-present bouquet of lilies his family dutifully puts out for him over the perfectly landscaped grave – after all, it's _France_, would he want anything else? The voice speaks of ball gowns and music and wouldn't she just like to go? and it's that voice and those hands that take her hair and mutters "it's not supposed to be black, you're on fire, Jeanne," and it makes her heart hurt because she simply _isn't_ Jeanne and she can't do anything about it and that they're probably up there together and she can't do anything about that either.

The voice morphs again – America's, brash and loud, but well-meaning and sincere in the end. Then it takes on a childish, higher tone, innocent with something dark lurking underneath – Russia. And then it's a myriad of voices she recognizes as her family's; a medley of Japan's politeness and Korea's energy and Hong Kong's taciturn tone and Thailand's gentleness, all speaking of shattered hopes and broken dreams.

And then another voice.

"_Jiejie_?"

Vietnam bolts upright, searching frantically for the high-pitched, lyrical voice that belonged to her little sister, the lone female voice that silenced the clash. "Wan? Where are you–"

And she realizes that's she's sitting all alone with nothing but the moonlight in her face for company and that's when she screams.

* * *

"You're kidding. You're seriously kidding."

Denmark sits with his back to Iceland, but he knows the younger Nordic well enough to know what his face looks like at the moment: probably flushed, worried, but with that determined glint in those purple eyes. He feels a pang: despite being shinier, those eyes did look a lot like Norway's.

"Erik, look, I know you want to see your brother," Finland pipes up – he's been so kind, lately, more than usual – "But…"

"But bribing the guards?" Denmark interrupts. "That's taking it a little too far, isn't it?"

"And…" Finland's voice is low. "What if you get infected?"

Iceland is silent for a second, but begins talking again. "Please. I need to see my brother."

Next to him, Sweden grunts. "N'rge would've w'nted it…"

Iceland gasps and Finland hangs his head.

"I-I guess you're right," Denmark says shakily. He wonders how it feels like for Iceland: they are, after all, one of the few Nations who really were related by blood. Denmark himself had no siblings whatsoever, and as such he relied on the rest of the Nordics to fill in this gap for him. But Norway…Iceland was his brother. How many nations had the honor of actually having a sibling, somebody who was actually their own flesh and blood? He gives a light cough and swivels his chair around to face Iceland. "Listen, Ice. There's a window on the second floor of Norway's hospital…"

* * *

Sometimes Seychelles walks the charred remains of Paris – or what used to be Paris, in any case. Nobody calls it Paris anymore: the name used to denote a beautiful city with light and love and laughter, not this burnt wasteland.

Sometimes Monaco is with her, unlike now. Vietnam is always too ill to make it.

And sometimes Canada is with her, like now.

But she is always there.

They walk in companionable silence, never speaking with their mouths but instead with their eyes. They recount the lessons in French and the kisses and cuddles and sometimes they reach the remains of what used to be the giant pyramid known to the world as the Louvre or the Eiffel Tower, a once grand tourist destination reduced to a pile of burnt rubble. And it's saddening, France had loved these so and he was so very proud of them. Seychelles sometimes reaches out and feels the rubble and _feels_ France's presence, all at once terrifying and heartwarming and tear-jerking somehow, and it's shocking and saddening because she knows Canada can feel it, too.

* * *

**In answer to Denmark's inner question; that's actually a lot of canonically established ones minus Norway and Iceland: North and South Italy (each other); America, Canada (each other); Ukraine, Belarus, and Russia; Prussia, Germany (each other); Belgium, Luxembourg (who is stated to be a sibling) and the Netherlands; England, Sealand, and the presumably male rest of the UK (each other, and as they are only referred to as 'brothers' we don't know exactly if they are male). And as far as I know Liechtenstein and the rest of the Asian characters are adopted and not blood related. If I'm wrong or I'm missing somebody, feel free to correct me.**

**Anyway.**


	4. blurring lines

**Life in Slow Motion**

**Chapter Four**: blurring lines

There is music and Hungary is dancing.

He doesn't know how or when it started, since he's known her since childhood, but girl or not she's a fantastic dancer. She twirls with a certain grace that isn't quite sloppy but isn't quite elegantly poised, instead with her own certain girlish charm, and her laughter is light and tinkling, not unlike the sound of a bell. Her dress is red and white and green, and it's long and flowing like a gorgeous summer dress. Her shoes are gold, her favorite color, and they are almost a blur as they move so fast.

And she looks almost _alive_. And that's what nearly breaks his heart, and all of a sudden he can see what captured Austria's.

Hungary is not a pretty woman. She has none of Liechtenstein's grace or Monaco's elegance or Vietnam's deliberation. But she has gorgeous red-gold hair and her bright green eyes and there's a smile on her face that's warmer than summer sun, and that makes her beautiful, perhaps more than any of the other female nations. She is a child in some aspects but wonderfully mature in others. And she isn't quite dead, yet, although that last one is hard to believe.

He doesn't want to wonder where the music is coming from, but like one in a dream does he turns to see Austria at the piano, creating beautiful sounds for his beautiful dancer, and his heart nearly stops because _Austria isn't supposed to be sick. He isn't sick no no nononononononono_—

Hungary laughs again, and turns to him, reaching out her hand.

**(**_Dance with me._**)**

**.**

**.**

**.**

_No_, he screams, but Hungary seems not to hear. She smiles and grabs his wrist, and he screams again.

.

.

.

The scene changes, and he's in a hospital.

It's one of those terrible hospitals one sees in war films: white walls, white floors, and white ceilings. White nurses and doctors in white lab coats, bustling about and doing their best to make sure nobody dies. And what's chilling is that it's all silent: he can see the patients' mouth move when they talk, but nothing is coming out. It's as if he's stuck in an old, silent film – he can hear absolutely nothing. In terror he claws at his own mouth, trying – _trying_ – to get something to come out. But no such luck.

And that's when he hears the violin.

The strains are weak, as if the violinist has just recovered from a terrible illness, but they are beautiful nonetheless. Nobody else in the spotless hallway seems to hear, and all he can do is follow the sounds to a well-lit, luxurious room. He opens the door just a little, just enough to see Norway's frail, blond form perched on the bed, his back to the door, his fingers moving in a blur as they struggle to cope with the movements of the bow.

Norway turns monochromatic violet eyes on him, and he speaks.

**(**_Come. Sit here_.**)**

.

.

.

He tries to resist, but no word comes out of his mouth, and in silent terror he can only watch as Norway's nearly see-through fingers touch his own.

.

.

.

He's back again in a large house he vaguely recognizes. It's large and spacious and familiar, but he can't quite put his finger on who owns it until he sees the large Dutch flag on one of the walls.

Truth be told, he'd thought Netherlands was the strong one of the three siblings. And _now _look.

He wanders through the house, drinking in the familiarity of Netherlands and his two sisters, looking at their things and pictures and wonders at their attempts to be a family once again – even though everyone knew that countries who were siblings were meant to be separated.

It's silent, but the peaceful kind of silent you see in films, where there is sunlight basking through the window and birds chirping outside – but all is deathly still in front of the house except for his thin form walking through it—

Until he hears his voice.

The deep baritone voice sings a lyrical song he vaguely recognizes in the back of his head, but all is blurry and his head is blind. So instead he walks towards it, realizing vaguely that _oh my god_ he can't stop walking towards it.

The voice leads him into a sitting room populated by two people: one seemingly asleep on the bed, the other on a chair next to the bed, the latter constantly tending to the former, constantly moving his head in time with the song.

The one on the chair stops singing and turns, and he realizes with a stab of horror that it's Netherlands, and the one 'asleep' on the bed is his youngest sister Luxembourg, her hair falling like a golden curtain around her face.

"You came," says Netherlands. "I'm afraid Lucia took ill with that pesky little disease. She likes hearing people sing."

He can only watch. The positions had been reversed.

Netherlands doesn't stop talking. "Help me," he says.

**(**_Sing with me._**)**

.

.

.

_Never_, he hisses, but by now he should know that he can't stop them.

.

.

.

Once again the scene morphs.

He is in a garden, one with which he has had little to do. It's filled with flowers from all over, and bridges, and trees, and birds, everything his sister would love. He walks through with an almost ethereal understanding, seeing the beauty in this and marveling at the people who must live here.

"Gorgeous," he says, and with relief, he can speak again.

There is a group of children in the center of the garden, following a taller man across a bridge, and they are singing in a lovely cacophony of high and low, of up and down. The song is of a language he does not know, but for some reason he knows that it sings of flowers and peace and freedom.

The man's face is a blur, but he can recognize those clothes and that posture as China's anytime. The tallest boy is probably Japan, the next tallest Korea. The shorter of the two girls is probably Taiwan. And so on, until he realizes with a shock that their faces are all a blur.

And he screams, and they hear him. They stop singing.

"Whatever's the matter?" he hears Hong Kong say – at least, he thinks it's Hong Kong, how many of them spoke in that deadpan monotone? And then it flashes and he realizes that Hong Kong is dead.

"Are you afraid?" The-one-who-would-be-Japan turns to him, his face nothing but a blur.

"You shouldn't be," laughs Taiwan, only he can't see her mouth move to make the laugh.

"You of all people," says Korea. His hands move to scratch his little nose, only there's no nose to scratch.

"Oh, don't be like that, you're scaring him," says a new voice, and he turns to see Vietnam – only she looks to be around seven or eight in human years.

Vietnam turns to him, and he realizes that her pretty, intelligent face is perfectly clear: the curious dark eyes, the upturned nose, the rosebud lips. He can see it all perfectly, and yet alongside her blurry-faced siblings she looks perfectly natural.

She smiles at him. "It's nice here, isn't it?" She reaches out a chubby hand to him. "Isn't it?" And all of a sudden he jerks his hand back, because he knows what she wants.

**(**_Stay. Stay with us. With me._**)**

**.**

**.**

**.**

He furiously shakes his head, but Vietnam touches his hand, and her siblings follow suit, and all of a sudden he can no longer see his reflection in the clear pond water, only a pale, Aryan blur...

.

.

.

And all of a sudden they're all there, Hungary dancing with South Italy to Austria's piano, Vietnam and the Netherlands singing to Norway's violin, and Lithuania throwing his head back and laughing like he hasn't done in years, and Belarus is grinning widely alongside him and Latvia and and and _they're all sick they should not be that well_

Russia turns to him.

**(**_Switzerland. Join us_.**)**

And then the scene changes yet again and he's at Hong Kong's funeral, with Chinese inscriptions and candles

And he's at France's, with all the lilies and the grand decorations and the prayers sung in a soon-forgotten language

And then the scene changes to funeral after funeral after funeral and soon he can't take it anymore–

.

.

.

"Bruder?"

.

.

.

Liechtenstein is bending over him, concern in her blue-green eyes. "Vash! I was worried!"

He groans and shakes his head, in the process nearly hitting his head on the headboard. "It's nothing, Liesel. I just had a bad dream."

"Would you want to tell me about it?"

And he does, and it all spills out, the terror of seeing Hungary dancing like there's no tomorrow, of seeing Norway's frail form exert himself to that limit, of seeing Netherlands painstakingly care for his younger sister, of seeing the faceless children who've lost their brother and are about to lose another sibling. And the terror of seeing everything all at once, and all the funerals, and hearing her voice, then finally – nothing.

The understanding sister that she is, Liechtenstein says nothing for a while, and then finally, she says, "I think you're afraid." There's something in her voice, then, and Switzerland realizes that yes, she's lonely. Ever since the epidemic worsened he's forbidden her to go outside for fear of infection, and with Hungary under the weather and in terrible condition she has no nearby female nation to share her worries with.

For fear of infection.

Was he that afraid for his life? For theirs?

"You're afraid," Liechtenstein continues softly. "You're afraid that the disease will get to you – to me, to us, and you're doing everything you can to make sure that that doesn't happen. You don't want them to get to you, but you don't want to stand by totally helpless, either. You don't want the fear of it to consume you." She gives him a light smile.

Vash says nothing for a while. "What do I do?"

She sighs. "I don't know."

"Nobody knows."

Liechtenstein sighs. "I know."

.

.

.

"Today Switzerland announced that it is willing to open its borders to refugees and people running from the disease…"

England's hand hovered over the remote control. He stared at the television news reporter in shock, too afraid to change the channel.

"Its government announced that due to some urgent persuasions, they have been advised to allow themselves to help…"

Suddenly England found himself breaking into a grin. Perhaps they had all underestimated Switzerland's niceness, after all.

That was when his phone rang. The screen flashed, revealing Canada's number.

"Matthew," he says into the receiver. "What is it?"

Canada's voice is desperate and hopeful. "Arthur, I think you have to see this," he says. "Really."

Arthur frowned, and he asked the younger nation his location. "All right," he said after a while. "I'll be right there."

"Good," says Canada, and there's a touch of excitement in his voice.

.

.

.

"Who," asks England irritably, "Is this?"

Monaco protectively moves in front of him. "Don't be like that," she says. "She's so young. She doesn't remember a thing."

"Actually," says the high, girlish voice behind her, "_Mademoiselle, _I do think you are underestimating me, _non_?"

Arthur's heart nearly stops, and he turns to Canada and Seychelles for confirmation.

Canada nods sadly. "We found her just today, while Charlotte and I were walking in – _what used to be_ Paris."

"What _used_ to be Paris?" says the girl, a touch indignantly. "My capital is beautiful! It's never going to truly fall, you know."

England looks pleadingly at Monaco, who graciously moves aside, and his heart nearly stops again. In front of him is a young girl – had he been human, he would have thought her as around five or six (although a rather spoiled, elegant, overbearing five-or-six-year-old at that). Her hair falls in golden curls around her face, and her mouth like the petals of a pale pink rose. But what strikes him the most is her eyes - _Francis'_ eyes, like a Virginian sky.

"France," he whispers.

"If you must," she sniffs. "But I would like it if you called me Françoise. Françoise Bonnefoy. My name. I have already met Matthew and Charlotte, of course. I am to meet Miss Angelique later. And you are Sir Arthur Kirkland, the personification of England. Do I have permission to call you that?"

"Of course," he says, and before he can control himself, the words spill out. "Oh lord, I thought you were gone! We all did, and you should have _seen_ the funeral. Is Joan fine? Dear god, I knew I should have apologized…You should see how Antonio is doing – absolutely terrible, that is, because there's still Lovino to think of, and Gilbert is worrying about Elizaveta, the dear girl's down as well, you see. Next time, please don't go off like that and make us all worry–"

"Worry?" the newest personification of France says. "The great France, making _England_ worry? God in heaven, what have I _done_?"

And there's a familiar old glint in her new eyes, and Arthur feels a stab of recollection, because _Francis used to do that too_. He glances at Canada and Monaco, and he knows they see it too.

.

.

.

**A/N: Going to go arm myself with a shield before people throw rotten tomatoes at me for slacking off. **

**First off, I am very sorry **_**To The Stars **_**got to ten chapters while I seemingly abandoned this at three. I can assure you all that I haven't forgotten about it. Life just got in the way. You know how it is.**

**Aaaand I am a total idiot and accidentally added stuff last chapter which wasn't supposed to be in there. Oh, well. **

**I like Switzerland. Honestly. He's going to do much more later. Sorry to all his fans because of how he is in this /orz  
**

**As for France, before you guys start bawling hysterically because France is **_**female**_**, just think of nyotalia!France. Only blonder. And she was going to be named Marianne (the **_**other**_** common name for her) but I went with Françoise because it's the female version of Francis. That is going to pop up later. If I remember about it.**

/lame


End file.
